Then we slackened pace in a road that wound in sharp descent
through a gap in the hills, with the rush and roar of a torrent beneath
and beside us, the wind sweeping with wild blasts through the trees
that lined the way and covered the hillside and seeming to change the
direction of its attack at every moment.
"We'll make it, I reckon," said Thatcher, at last. "It's only two miles
farther, and the train hasn't gone up yet."
The horses by this time were well-blown. The road was heavy, and we had
pressed them hard. Yet they struggled with spirit as they panted, and
answered to the whip when we called on them for the last stretch as we
once more found a level road.
There was no sign of life about the station as we drew our panting,
steaming horses to a halt before it, and no train was in sight. The
rain dripping heavily from the eaves was the only sound that came from
it, and a dull glow from an engine that lay alone on a siding was the
only light that was to be seen.
"What's the time?" asked Thatcher. "We must have made a quick trip."
"Twenty minutes past three," said I, striking a match under my coat to
see my watch-face.
"Immortal snakes!" cried Thatcher. "I'm an idiot. This is Sunday
night."
I failed to see the connection of these startling discoveries, but I
had spirit enough to argue the case. "It's Monday morning, now."
"Well, it's the same thing. The freight doesn't run to-night."
I awoke to some interest at this announcement.
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